


Darling, I Listen

by ZeraHenna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Darkling I Listen AU, Demons, Gen, Spin-Off, add-on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:20:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeraHenna/pseuds/ZeraHenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She said 'hi' to me,” the woman carried on, sounding mystified and curious and disgusted all at the same time. “As if this is all completely normal. I don't know what she is, but she's as crazy as Holmes.”</p><p>Well, to be fair, Adalade had mused, there wasn't much 'normal' going on in New London, either, so it really depended on your definition of the subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, I Listen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Darkling, I Listen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/396130) by [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky). 



> This is sort of my own little spin-off of _Darkling, I Listen._
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

Her mom had the gift of fire.

She would burn things around the house and stare into the flames, eyes glassy and demented. Her hands were burnt and scarred from constant abuse. Her body shook when there was no fire in the house, nothing to burn, and Adalade remembers faintly that her aunt would light the fireplace every time her mother got upset, coaxing her to stare safely into the flames that roared and cracked in the hearth. It was like an addiction.

She hardily ever spoke to her mother.

__

 

The fog made her eyes glow bright blue, and when she moved, the blue whisked slowly, floating, as if there were some sort of lag. When she ran, you would see the neon blue streak of her eyes, agleam in the murky fog that enclosed Old London. Outsiders thought she was a threat, something that had been made to hunt them, like the demons, the wolves, The Beast, because the beasts never hurt her.

She was the glitch, something that was never meant to be, and Moriarty had let her slip between his fingers. He was unaware of her existence, which was rather humorous to her; the fog was known to mock the Outsiders, brag of his intelligence.

It didn't bother her, though.

She rather liked the fog.

__

 

Molly always seemed so very surprised by her when she showed up to say hello.

“Oh. What are you still doing here?” She'd ask. “You can leave any time you want, you know.”

Adalade would shrug. “This is my home.”

Molly would squint at her, as if trying to get a clearer picture, trying in vein to see her outline though the gloom of the fog.

“I can only ever truly see your eyes,” Molly had said once, their third time meeting, sounding sheepish. “They glow so vividly, like a light. But you're not part of this, are you? The Game never really acknowledges your existence.” She paused, glancing and squinting behind the glowing blue eyes, to glimpse the demons that always trailed behind her feet. “Well. Except for them. Do you know why? They never have once looked at you as a threat.”

“I'm a failure of a person to try and understand, Molly,” Adalade had murmured into the murk.

“I never remember you until I see you again, you know,” she had mused, sounding curious. 

“I'm afraid that not many remember me much,” Adalade had sighed.

Not even she remembered much.

__

 

The demons kept her company most of the time.

There were a select few that stayed with her more often than not. She had names for all of them, despite the fact that many Outsiders claimed they all looked the same. To her, she saw the bloody aura around them, answering questions she never had to ask. She could judge how many people they had ravaged by the thickness of the crimson that seeped from their skin and floated above the fur of their flanks. Each of their eyes glinted different dim colors of the same dingy rainbow.

__

 

Eunk was her solid shadow, his eyes flashing a dangerous dark brown, like dried blood. She found him in the beginning of the fog, after it spread, a little pup with death in his soul and a thirst for ripped flesh and pools of tattered souls. She had always had a thirst for the unknown, and if she was magnificently honest, for danger. She watched and waited and offered her hand. He had sniffed it, and then scrambled up to crawl into her lap.

Almost all of the demons that followed her or came and went were decedents of Eunk's flourishings within the breeding grounds. Other demons would sniff her curiously while passing by, but Eunk and his children never let them get too close.

__

 

Eunk leaves his newborn pups at her feet and waits for her to name them when he sires another litter. She knows there is a pattern, and she should know when this happens—every other month, perhaps?—but in the fog, there is very little rules for time. The thing that saddens her, when she names the pups and Eunk lets her play with them while guarding her and the litter, is that she knows this side of them. They are hated, and she knows why, but they are never appreciated, like a deadly snake or jungle cat might be. She remembers watching a documentary when she was small, about dangerous animals in the wild, and hearing the narrator say, with wonder in his voice, “They are all very distinctively deadly, but aren’t they just beautiful?”

Demons were beautiful. 

She feels as if she is digging her own grave, by naming these pups, by giving them time to grow and become attached.

They will all die, whether their fate be marred by an armed Outsider or destroyed once the game had been won.

Adalade always clung to Eunk closer, when these thoughts surface.

__

 

“Demons lie, Adalade.” Her teacher had assured her when she was thirteen. “They don't care about you at all. They tell you stories, and they spin a world for you to see—but it's all a lie.”

“Mrs,” Adalade had answered, eyes looking sadly at the worn-down face of the teacher with a peculiar look on her features. Adalade looked rather older than she should have. “I am quite aware.”

__

 

The outsiders are wary of her, and the very few that stay alive pass sights of her as if she were a dangerous legend.

“She rides the demons,” she once had overheard a woman with frizzy hair whisper, hushed, to another woman who carried a shotgun slung over her shoulder in a leather strap.

“I thought they always killed Outsiders?”

“She's not an Outsider. I've heard several theories, but the only one that makes sense is that she's in charge of the demons, somehow. Like a caretaker.” The female with frizzy hair had dropped her voice lower, but the fog did not condense the echos of her harsh voice that bounced against the concrete walls of their hideout. “Her eyes. They glow in the dark. Vivid blue, I've seen them myself.”

“What is she, then?” the other female hissed. “A demon? A Witch?”

The frizzy-haired girl paused, and then replied, “When I saw her, she was riding down the streets as I was walking with the others, trying to blend in.” she said, voice sounding faint. “She always rides on the same demon. Some say you can tell if it's the demon when it's alone because it's the biggest one there is, besides the Beast. She was talking to the demon as they went by. But it noticed me, the demon, and slowed down and stared right at me.”

A hush swept over the area, as if the fog was intrigued. Which she knew it never listened, when it came to her; Moriarty, ever the fool, thought she was just a legend, as well.

For a brief moment, Adalade had felt slight remorse over the fact that she didn't remember any of this at all. All the Outsiders looked the same to her, now days. Eunk may be been tame, but he could not and would not control his pups. He protected her, and not others; so she was used to glimpsing scared faces of running Outsiders, and never viewing them again. Or maybe seeing pieces of them again.

She never truly dwelled on it, for no matter how many times she desired to stay in the fog forever, she still had a heart.

“She said 'hi' to me,” the woman carried on, sounding mystified and curious and disgusted all at the same time. “As if this is all completely normal. I don't know what she is, but she's as crazy as Holmes.”

Well, to be fair, Adalade had mused, there wasn’t much 'normal' going on in New London, either, so it really depended on your definition of the subject.

__

 

She knows that if she were anyone else, they would not even hesitate to rip her to shreds.

They all know who she really is. What she really is.

__

 

Sherlock never remembered her, which was fine. No-one really did, until she came back to see them. But Sherlock was different; he never, ever remembered her. 

She could smell the Witch blood on him, and apparently, so could the demons—it was rather hilarious, given the fact that she had saved his arse so many times from Eunk's brood, as well as other demons, and he always asked the same questions.

“Who are you? You are not from the Game.” 

And then he would glimpse her eyes, and he would struggle with trying to pin her down, trying desperately to classify her.

“You aren’t human,” he would finally conclude. The desperate frustration made her smile faintly every time. She knew he wasn't used to not understanding someone.

“Humans died out long ago,” she would say, which was true. Anyone considered 'normal' these days, would have been seen as abnormal, a few hundred years ago. Her father had told her that, before he burned. He had shown her old text books and journals. “Besides, you're one to talk.”

“You... What are you?”

Just in case Moriarty was listening in, as he regularly checked up on Sherlock's whereabouts, she always answered this question with silence.

It wasn't like he was going to remember, anyways.

__

 

Eunk's rough fur comforts her in the blank, black mist, when she feels extremely lonely.

Which is, deplorably, most of the time. 

__

 

Her mother had tied her father to the bed, doused the house in gas, and burned it tho the ground.

When questioned by the police, Her mother had gave them a wicked smile.

“Never fall in love with a demon, love.” She had said to the young Constable, her voice as strong as I'd ever hear it. “They lie to you.”

__

 

It was true that she could leave the fog whenever she wanted; she had done it once before, wandering the streets of New London before giving up on normalcy. She had hoped, if only slightly, that it would appeal to her. Once she heard the wail of Eunk calling out for her, desperately, causing New London to start remembering that the fog was not only there, but held dangerous things.

She had returned without ever looking back, accepting her fate.

She was her father's daughter, after all.  
__


End file.
